


The Warm Spot

by DoRiSs_87



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Romance, artfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-07 13:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20310253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoRiSs_87/pseuds/DoRiSs_87
Summary: He’d long ago grown accustomed to this internal cold–it was normal for a demon. But, damn it, to his misfortune, his wings still remembered the warmth of heaven; he still craved the gentle glow of angelic light. But his fall from grace had left his heart tortured and tainted.





	The Warm Spot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sphinx28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sphinx28/gifts).

> [Wonderful art by which written fic](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard#)
> 
> Huge gratitude for help with the text
> 
> [Lunasong365](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365)
> 
> This fic can also be read in Russian https://ficbook.net/readfic/8450181

Surrounded by the greenery of his houseplants, Crowley was lying on a newly-purchased electric rug, trying to warm himself. This newest object of human invention warmed his body, but inside, he felt as cold as he always had.

Yes, he’d long ago grown accustomed to this internal cold–it was normal for a demon. But, damn it, to his misfortune, his wings still remembered the warmth of heaven; he still craved the gentle glow of angelic light. But his fall from grace had left his heart tortured and tainted.

Curled up as tight as the initial of his name, Crowley mused about the fiery gaze of his angel. When Aziraphale’s eyes shone with happiness, kindness, and all-encompassing love, Crowley had cunningly discovered he could bask in their warmth.

It had now been months since Heaven and Hell had tried to execute them. Aziraphale hadn’t called or stopped by. No doubt distracted by his angel doings and old books, he’d probably forgotten all about a lonely demon.

Not that Crowley was bored. He was just very _cold._ And the damned rug was barely making a dent in it.

Working side by side with the angel over the past few years should have provided him with warmth to spare. After all, he’d previously been fine just touching base with him once per century. If those meetings had been longer or more often, his insides might have scorched.

But the sudden absence of Aziraphale only made him more aware of the cold. He wished he’d felt strong enough to worm his way into the very essence of that ethereal glow.

Some might think that a serpent like Crowley had no need for warmth, but…Crowley knew better than anyone that once you’d felt something that wonderful, your body craved it.

The restless thoughts that usually filled his head were absent today. All he could think about today was the cold and his loneliness. His two constant companions. Even when he’d been an angel, he’d felt isolated. He was different, and he was shunned for it. After he’d Fallen, Heaven had surely sighed in relief, finally rid of that annoying pain in the arse.

Of course, it was no better in Hell. One didn’t make friends in Hell. The demons were all so disgusting and cold, and he still remembered what it was like to be warm.

And that’s why Crowley first spoke to the angel.

And since then, since that first brilliant smile directed personally to Crowley, he’d been acutely aware of the angel’s whereabouts throughout the centuries. Running into him as if by accident. Crowley yearned for that feeling of warmth–the same one that had, with just one look, radiated through him at that first meeting on the Garden wall.

He considered the angel a friend, joked about his boundless love–but deep inside he longed to be at the center of that love.

“Hello! Anyone home?” Aziraphale’s voice suddenly rang out, but Crowley, lost in reverie, didn’t recognize the voice as real. 

Just then the angel entered the greenhouse and, apparently alarmed at the sight of the demon huddled on the floor, whispered in shock:

“Crowley?”

It was as if Crowley had suddenly been doused with ice water. He scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with embarrassment. Suddenly finding himself face-to-face with the one he’d pined for from afar, he struggled to say something articulate.

“Azi… why… why are you here?”

“I was in the neighborhood and decided that it might be nice to go out to dinner together,” said Aziraphale, still staring inquiringly at the demon. Then, as if suddenly realizing what he was seeing, gently and tenderly, as only his angel could, Aziraphale asked:

“Why were you on the floor, Crowley?”

…and looked straight into his eyes–sending a wave of the heat he’d sought in vain from every other source coursing through his body.

“I’m…just cold. And the rug is heated, and I just…” Crowley interrupted his stream of disorderly explanations when he realized the angel was inching toward him. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice dropping a few tones.

“Oh. It’s…please, let me…” whispered Aziraphale, moving even closer to the demon. “Please.”

“I don’t…don’t know what you want.” Crowley took a step back, trying to control his racing heart.

“Please, my dear, let _me_ warm you.” Before he’d even finished, the angel had taken the last step separating them and very gently, very carefully–as if Crowley was the last copy of a rare, old book and not a demon–wrapped him in a hug.

Crowley exhaled convulsively and closed his eyes, memorizing the full range of emotions he was now experiencing, every variant of warmth that surged through his corrupted soul, and every point of contact between their human bodies.

It was…_exhilarating._

Up until now, the angel had rarely touched him. Every, literally every single one of his touches was tenderly tucked away by Crowley as a priceless treasure in a special vault in his memory–with access denied to anyone in Heaven or Hell who might try to get inside his head. And each memory was cherished. On those quiet days when the humans seemed to be doing just fine corrupting themselves, he made himself comfortable, closed his eyes, and opened one of the secret doors of his consciousness. He carefully drew out the memory stored within, savoring each moment and feeling the warmth in the place where–accidently or maybe intentionally, but always so natural and gentle–the angel had once made contact.

And now it almost seemed like too much. Crowley felt as if he was almost drowning in the swell of tenderness and the rush of heat. It felt as if his insides were burning, and his wings itched to be released, also wanting their share of angelic light and heat. Crowley tried to repress them, not knowing if Aziraphale would approve. To encounter the black fallen wings that had been singed by the flames of temptation–he might shun him…

“Let your wings out, Crowley.” His angel’s voice chimed softly in his ear, and he shivered in surprise. It was as if Aziraphale had read his thoughts, which of course, couldn’t be true. It might be expected of someone else, but not his pure, holy angel.

“What?” he asked hoarsely, afraid that the answer might be different than the one he so desperately wanted.

“Don’t hold your wings in,” Aziraphale clarified, running his hands across Crowley’s shoulder blades.

Hardly believing his ears, Crowley manifested his wings, trying to straighten his unkempt feathers, nervous that they might brush by accident against the angel.

But Aziraphale freed his wings as well, and without hesitation, wrapped them over those of the demon.

It was…_insulating. _Crowley couldn’t think of a better word to describe it. The world, for him, had suddenly narrowed to just the two of them–he no longer saw or heard anything else. He almost felt as if he were soaring through the sky–that intoxicating combination of freedom and joy that he’d almost forgotten. But even that couldn’t compare to the indescribable spectrum of emotions he was now feeling.

He was ready to pledge fealty to God, to Satan…to anyone, actually…if it meant this would never end.

His wings…no one had ever touched his wings before. It was a strange, new, and exciting feeling, one for which he was willing to upend his world, if only he could experience it again and again. It permeated his body and soul, his whole _being,_ with an electrifying force, winding itself into a tight ball somewhere in his solar plexus. It seemed to soothe his tormented soul with its sultry tendrils.

But suddenly–it was over. Just as abruptly as it had begun. The angel withdrew his wings, stepped back, and turned away, his head bowed and his arms tightly hugging his own chest.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley started miserably, before realizing he had no other words to say.

“Please forgive me,” Aziraphale muttered, his back still to Crowley. “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for, angel, It’s…” Crowley said stiffly. Barely able to hold back the frost he felt crystallizing inside him, he knew that if right now, he were plunged into a bath of Holy Water, it wouldn’t be as painful as this.

“You don’t understand!” Aziraphale had raised his voice to almost a shout. “It was…” he continued, barely audible. “It was too… too…”

“Unpleasant. Disgusting. Repelling…”

“Intimate!” the angel interrupted, raising his voice again.

“In…in…ti…mate?” stammered Crowley, repeating the word that had unexpectedly left him blindsided. He stared at Aziraphale’s back.

“I…I don’t even know if you’ve ever been close with someone else,” Aziraphale said slowly, as if carefully choosing each word before he said it. “Most likely you have. I remember you saying…” the angel now spoke faster, stumbling over his words. “You said you had a lot of, well, a lot of people always around you and…with…well, undoubtedly you have someone better you can hang around with, but…” he continued, “…but I’ve never…never been that close to…” His voice returned to a barely audible whimper. “My wings…and I…I felt…”

“What did you feel?” queried Crowley in a whisper.

“As if myriads of stars exploded in me all at once, overwhelming me with light and warmth,” muttered Aziraphale, lost in musing. Then, as if an afterthought, he apologetically continued, “Sorry. I’m…I’m not supposed to feel this way about you. This is unacceptable. I’m so ashamed, oh my god, I can’t…I shouldn’t…I…I just wanted to help you get warm. You needed warmth, and I acted like…“ He choked.

Hearing such words from Aziraphale was as inconceivable as watching rain rise from the ground up. It was simply preposterous. Crowley was afraid to trust his ears. But in the depths of his black soul, a tenacious seed of hope had already taken root. He gazed at the blond curls of his counterpart and tried to quell the nervous shivers throughout his body. He should say something, he _needed_ to say something, but he wasn’t sure if he would be able to coherently form a sentence without further aggravating the situation.

_“He seems to me equal to the gods,” _recited Crowley. _“That man who is sitting opposite you and hears you nearby, speaking sweetly.” _He wasn’t sure why these words had suddenly occurred to him, perhaps because they described his situation so accurately. And once he’d started, the words started flowing. _“And your delightful laugh, which causes my heart to flutter in my chest; for when I look at you, however briefly, words fail me. It is as if my tongue were broken, and fire races beneath my skin. I no longer see or hear anything. A cold sweat breaks out and I tremble; I’m sallow as grass at the end of summer and death has never felt so near.”*_

“Sappho,” exhaled Aziraphale, as soon as the demon had finished. He quickly, excitedly turned to face him. “It’s Sappho. But…I didn’t know you liked poetry.”

“I…” Crowley hesitated. “I don’t. It’s just, well…something I’d read a long time ago.” Crowley didn’t like to make excuses. And it’s not like he was practiced at it–if he said more now, he might start stuttering like a guilty child. But the truth about those verses was too difficult. “I happen to know that you’d been looking for the only surviving manuscript of Sappho and Alcaeus, and…”

“It was you!” the angel exclaimed in astonishment. “You found it and planted it where I’d be sure to find it! I wondered how it could have been in such a place for so long…”

Crowley didn’t answer, but maintained his gaze into Aziraphale’s eyes, not sure what to do next. He’d almost directly confessed his feeling to the angel, and now he just had to wait and see what would happen.

Aziraphale, as if suddenly realizing that he was waiting for him as he went on about ancient manuscripts, blushed, and smiled sheepishly. 

“_Thoughts and worries have worn out my heart. What to do next? You tell me, dear.”*_

“Aziraphale…” breathed Crowley, and like plunging headfirst into water, took the last step still separating them. He wrapped his arms around the angel, as if he were afraid that he might change his mind and retreat, or disappear into thin air.

Aziraphale gently hugged him back, nuzzling his neck, and sighed contentedly.

Crowley pulled back slightly, trying to control his rush of feelings. He looked Aziraphale in the eye and reached out to gently touch the angel’s cheek with his fingertips. His eyes drifted to the angel’s lips.

“Would you like to kiss me?” Aziraphale whispered, smiling the most dazzling smile the demon had ever seen.

“I do,” he whispered hoarsely, never breaking his gaze and feeling his insides melt.

“They say that sharing a kiss with a loved one can be compared to…”

Crowley didn’t wait to hear the rest. He gingerly leaned forward, interrupting the angel’s words, but stopping just a few millimeters from his lips. As it turned out, this last step was the hardest to take.

He was a demon. Aziraphale was an _angel._ His devotedly-worshipped God would never approve, and Aziraphale would follow the party line. He’d probably known for six thousand years how Crowley felt about him. Why hadn’t he ever said anything? And why now? And…it was just _scary. _He’d wanted this for so long, and it would be heartbreaking to lose it.

And because without Aziraphale’s warmth–having now experienced it freely given–he would no longer be able to exist. He just…

He just might as well find some holy water and throw himself in.

“My dear, you’re thinking too much.” Aziraphale’s soft voice finally reached through to him. And then, the dry, slightly chapped, but oh so tender and warm lips of his very own angel kissed him.

It was slow, chaste, but so tender and lingering. And the first thought that entered Crowley’s mind when they broke the kiss was _why hadn’t anyone told him about this?_ He wasn’t listening to Aziraphale, who was saying something about how sharing a kiss with a loved one is comparable to–no, it was all nonsense. It was impossible to compare it to _anything._

Not only incomparable, but indescribable, incredible, and absolutely unforgettable.

When Crowley finally opened his eyes, it was to the most wonderful vision of an angel he’d ever seen. Disheveled jumper, flushed face, but with such a glow about him, and stars sparkling in his eyes. And red, swollen, and totally alluring _lips._

And…he seemed very…_happy._

“You’re glowing,” Crowley said. He was starting to feel like he was glowing too, from the inside out.

“Yes,” answered Aziraphale simply, flashing that dazzling smile. “And so are you.”

Crowley had no words. He gazed upon his angel and felt, for the first time in a long time, a new emotion: he was happy. After his Fall from Heaven and banishment to Hell, six thousand years of being cold and lonely on Earth, and a thousand painful years of unrequited love–finally _happy. _

“Looks like you’re right,” he responded, and manifesting his wings again, pressed against his–_his_–beloved angel, hugging him in his arms and sheltering him beneath his wings. 

_Everything is right._

**Author's Note:**

> Sappho – a Greek poetess best known for her lyric poetry, written to be set to music. Considered one of the Nine Lyric Poets of ancient Greece. Loved and wrote about women. 
> 
> Alcaeus – a Greek poet contemporary of Sappho, and included with the Nine Lyric Poets. His topics were broader, ranging from politics to drinking songs. Loved both women and men.


End file.
